


Simple Dreams

by Andriech



Series: Chekov & McCoy platonic [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andriech/pseuds/Andriech
Summary: When it looks like he'll miss his daughter's birthday again, McCoy doubts he'll ever manage to be a real father to Joanna. Third in the McCoy & Chekov series. K rating except for brief strong language in Chap 1.





	1. Chapter 1

Cold, steel blue eyes held riveted on the twisted form before them. They bore into its intricate design as if he expected to be able to cause some vile transformation if he only glared at it hard enough.

The image of Joanna’s face haunted him as he stared at it. The way she always chewed on the corner of her lip, her little nose scrunched up and her eyes shining a smoky blue when she was eagerly anticipating something delightful from her father. When he’d promised to be at her spelling bee, science fair, school play, skating competition, dance recital: when he’d told her he’d spend the day at the carnival with her. He never forgot that look. It was frozen in his mind forever.

On rare occasions he remembered that his ex-wife’s eyes had been the same when they’d first been together. He’d never noticed it at the time, but it was there. The same smoky blue color of hopeful expectation when she’d been asking him not to take the extra shift at the hospital, not to barricade himself in his study to find the answer to the latest patient’s quandary. He remembered being constantly irritated when he’d had to push plates of withered food and mounds of melted wax out of the way to spread his research on the dinner table after she’d gone to bed.

“Doctor McCoy?”

“What do you want?” he rasped, snapping his head over to glare instead at the Ensign who had apparently materialized by some silent transporter beam in the middle of his closed office.

Somber brown eyes regarded him patiently, unwavering and professional despite the Doctor’s unearned attack. “I am sorry to hear that Lt. Moore’s condition continues to deteriorate. She is an invaluable part of the ship’s science team.”

Like that’s going to make any fucking difference, McCoy thought instantly. “Don’t worry,” he snarled aloud with particular viciousness. “I’m sure Spock won’t load her extra work on you and cancel your precious leave.”

This young man didn’t deserve such treatment. He’d done nothing to warrant it. What was worse, he gave McCoy no rewarding, richly deserved, angry response. Chekov just continued to stare at him with his warm, soulful brown eyes.

Stop being so fucking....you, the Doctor willed forcefully.

“I understand that you will no longer be taking your leave as scheduled. I wondered if, perhaps, I could be of some assistance?”  
“Of course you can,” he said tartly. “Give me a cure.”

How the hell did Chekov know he’d canceled his leave? Was it posted on the damn ship-wide bulletin board? McCoy’s jaw shifted, his thoughts softening for the first time in two days. Of course it wasn’t. Pavel Chekov had some uncanny, innate connection to the crew of the ship that he served with. He always seemed to know when there was a problem: even when it was unvoiced. Unknown penpals wrote to lonely people, anonymous presents materialized for occasions that no one else even knew about. They were always incredibly appropriate gifts. Before the new navigator even knew her, he’d given Christian Chapel a beautiful working carousel for her birthday. She had never told anyone she had collected carousel horses as a child and, to this day, no one knew how he’d found out.

Of course, sometimes the gifts weren’t anonymous. When they weren’t, they tended to be ... well, Chekovian. After a week on board, Chekov had presented the ship’s cook with a beautiful Russian Orthodox icon for the main kitchen’s wall. It turned out to be Saint Euphrosynos, the patron Saint of cooks. He had said the kitchen staff needed all the help they could get.

Chekov was an extraordinary young man, the Doctor thought.

McCoy never spoke about the family he’d left behind to the people aboard ship, but he had no doubt that Pavel Chekov somehow knew that he’d been planning to meet his daughter to celebrate her birthday. His eyes shifted to stare again at the present on the desk he stood next to. The bow was made out of a beautiful transparent silk ribbon, the sweetheart roses tracing gentle patterns as it twisted and turned in a pattern that still transfixed McCoy. Chapel had found him struggling with it and affected magic with the writhing mass.

Why did that fucking bitch from the Science Labs have to come up with that ridiculous, mysterious, apparently terminal malady NOW?

The Doctor shifted his jaw as shame mingled with the toxic mix of emotion boiling within him. “I’ll bet your father never missed your birthday,” he muttered miserably. “Of course your father never missed your birthday,” McCoy growled louder. “He got you up and dressed every damn day of your life.”

“Well, not that week I refused to get dressed,” the younger man observed helpfully.

The Doctor glanced back and Chekov winced guiltily when he had the older man’s attention again. “I gave him two black eyes when I kicked him in the face. It was horrible display of disrespect.”

McCoy scowled at him. “You were two, Chekov.”

“Yes,” the man insisted miserably. “I should have behaved better.”

The Doctor smirked despite his foul mood. Someone had taken a great deal of time to teach Chekov good manners and concern for others. It wasn’t surprising to McCoy. He had learned that traditional Russians felt that teaching their children ‘moral upbringing and good breeding’ was even more important than a basic education. Their language even had a special word for it: vospitaniye.

“Your father even carried you to breakfast every day,” McCoy continued, purposely fishing. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Yes, well, he had to give me a piggyback ride lately,” Chekov insisted melodramatically. “We’re the same size now.”

The Doctor met the wide brown eyes for the first time. They were patient and warm. He felt sure he didn’t deserve the respect now that never seemed to waver from them.

People thought Chekov worshiped the ship’s Captain. They thought he tried to imitate Spock. They even debated on a constant basis exactly whose protégé he was. The Navigator was aware of all this. McCoy knew it because he and Chekov had discussed it at length. And they were all wrong.

Chekov had a remarkably sound sense of self, the Doctor was continually reminded. The younger man admired and respected all of the ship’s officers but had an uncanny ability to identify and emulate specific qualities and abilities in each of them. His apparent wide-eyed admiration was a thin veil which quickly dissolved when anyone took the time to ask him about it. It was just that no one ever took the time to ask.

“I’m surprised your father didn’t even spank you when you kicked him in the face,” McCoy observed curiously. Every parent eventually tapped toddlers occasionally. Sometimes it was the only way to get their attention. According to Chekov, Andrie had never done so for any reason.

The young man shook his head now. “He told me that I had a right to my own feelings. My father always said that you have to embrace your own emotions, no matter what they are.”

No one would argue that Chekov hadn’t learned that lesson.

The man stopped, soulful brown eyes purposely capturing the Doctor’s. “If you don’t, than you’re doomed to spend all your time warring with them instead of actually living your life.”

McCoy always felt that someone should have given Andrie Chekov a damn psychology degree. Something way beyond a doctorate. A PPPPhd. The Enterprise’s Doctor knew even as he thought it that just hearing Chekov repeat Andrie’s words had made McCoy recognize and accept the anger he felt toward his patient. No, it wasn’t right. It was downright selfish: but the anger was real, it was all his, and no one outside him could say what was real wasn’t acceptable. He was angry at her for getting sick. Damn angry.

And knowing this, it no longer held him. The anger was gone and McCoy was left with an all-consuming heartache that he had long ago learned to live with.

The young man approached him then, moving close enough so that the Doctor could feel the man’s body heat on his skin. “Could I not be of some assistance?” Chekov repeated, reaching out to clasp McCoy’s arm. The warmth of the younger man’s hand settled a deep sense of comfort on him.

Chekov had a remarkable ability to sense what the people around him needed emotionally and the Doctor often considered that he was unusually mature for his age. He must have known it because he hid it well.

McCoy felt a not-so-subtle sense of pride because he knew the respect he always saw deep in Chekov’s eyes was something different from the respect the man had for the ship’s other officers. After a difficult beginning, their relationship had become something the Doctor had never expected: something he didn’t even realize he’d value. Nothing McCoy knew he needed until he had it.

What Russians treasured most in life was long hours of conversation regarding everything beginning with the sunrise and ending with the meaning of life—usually in the same discussion. Chekov’s favorite debate had always been a daily commune with his father. Although Sulu was his closest friend on board, he’d come to rely on McCoy for a fatherly point of view on life. He’d actually appeared in sickbay on several occasions with strange, unexplainable maladies until McCoy had told him he was welcome to stop by to simply talk to the Doctor any time he wished. He’d even got used to the Russian’s comfort with...and need for...less personal space and physical contact when discussing important matters. Now it wasn’t unusual for the young man to materialize unexpectedly anywhere McCoy happened to be.

The Doctor’s sense of satisfaction at being needed by Chekov for personal reasons beyond the scope of his medical practice was deep and profound. He reached out and picked up the soft, pale blue present tenderly then. Joanna had eyes they still miserably identified in the text books as hazel. They were, in fact, a wonderful mix of colors that churned and changed with every emotion and shift of light. The wrapping paper he’d found was the exact smoky blue color that filled them when shining in anticipation. Why, he wondered, could I not manage to be there on her birthday just once in her twenty-four years? Was that too much a dream to hope for?

“I was sending a message,” he finally intoned with resignation. “But I doubt I’m going to make it down at all now. If you could just deliver this present for me, it would be a great help.”

Chekov reached out and took it easily, without hesitation, and his fingers traced over it with reverence. “Is this the music box you were considering?”

The Doctor’s eyes widened slightly. Had Chekov stopped by when I was looking at them on my computer? How on Earth does he notice and remember everything so inconsequential to everyone else? “Yes,” he said. “I was able to get it with music from her favorite ballet.” He hesitated then, staring at the package a moment. “Joanna dreamed of being a dancer when she was a little girl,” McCoy divulged uncharacteristically.  
“You’ve said she danced well,” the younger man agreed. 

McCoy eyed him. He hadn’t said it to Chekov.

“What’s her favorite ballet?” the Navigator asked amiably, brown eyes full of sincere interest.

“The Nutcracker,” the older man answered with a note of apology.

Chekov smiled easily, showing no sign that he found it as tiresome as he always claimed it was. “Every girl dreams of being the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

The Doctor’s smile was wistful. Not his Joanna. When her interest in medicine peaked, she had resisted her father's urging to become a doctor. She had never wanted to be Albert Schweitzer. She had not even wanted to be Florence Nightingale. Joanna had only wanted to be there to ease the discomfort of endless hospital patients. To be the nameless, shadowy nurse in the hospital that did her job so well that you forgot your stay was his daughter’s driving ambition. She’d always had simple dreams.

“Joanna dreamed of being Clara,” he said finally, eyes straying to the smoky blue color of the paper on the box in Chekov’s hands again. The Bolshoi Ballet had performed the Nutcracker in Atlanta the Christmas she was twelve. He’d promised to bring her to the auditions on Saturday. She had stressed how important it was to her that her father was there. She didn’t even dream of being Clara when the possibility of her dream coming true came near: her smoky blue eyes were filled with the hope of just being one of the children. Just one of the nameless children in a real ballet performance ...

McCoy had found her late that night bundled in the big chair by the door, curled up in her thick winter coat and her arms cuddling her treasured dance bag. Her sleep-exhausted eyes were swollen and red. It was the very last time Leonard McCoy had ever made his daughter cry.

She had simply stopped expecting anything from him. And she stopped dancing.  
“She dreamed of being Clara,” the Doctor repeated, glancing up to meet Chekov’s wide brown eyes again, his own blue eyes distant. The young man showed no signs of impatience or intolerance: he simply stood there quietly and waited while McCoy repeatedly drifted out of the room.

“Excuse me, Sir, but does your daughter not know anyone else on the Space Station?”

McCoy snorted quietly in response. The young woman had carefully planned to be here when the Enterprise made her scheduled stop. The ship had even been on time. It was a sheer miracle. Or it would have been had his work not got in the way. Again. 

“No, she doesn’t know anyone here.”

Chekov nodded amiably. “Than would it not be acceptable for me to inquire of her if she would like my company for any of the cultural offerings available this week?”

McCoy gave a rueful smile. The Ensign had resorted to asking his questions in the negative Russian fashion. It wasn’t that they were dogged pessimists: it was considered unacceptable to make someone uncomfortable or appear bad in public. They always asked questions in a way which gave a person a graceful way out. “No, it would not be acceptable. ..”

“Don’t you have plans to spend your leave with Sulu and Uhura?” he asked.

“Yes,” the Ensign agreed immediately, but he flashed the older man a shameless smirk. “When you spend all your leave time with the same people you spend every day with, however, you often end up needing a vacation worse when you come back than when you left.”

The Doctor laughed out loud. “Ensign, that’s a profound truth you’ve developed there.” The young man’s soulful eyes were still fixed on him: still waiting for an answer to his question. Was it acceptable for Chekov to entertain his daughter? he questioned himself.

The young Ensign was relied on by every morale officer. It didn’t matter who’d been saddled with job during the current month. When the ship was approaching any landfall—be it land or station---Chekov researched and posted every available diversion long before the current morale officer had time to consider doing it. They’d come to expect it. Performances, exhibits, lectures: the young man had a knack of finding every worthwhile diversion available.

Sulu had told the Doctor that The Seaman’s Friend Society on Earth had done the same for countless centuries. They’d made sure sailors had alternatives to the more seedy entertainment available at every port. Not that Chekov never took advantage of the seedy alternatives: he simply had a zeal for learning and made sure he didn’t regret missing an opportunity to do so. It never occurred to him not to share the information he found.

“Have you finished that Security course you were working on?” McCoy asked the fatherly question as the inspiration hit him. Since leaving the Academy, Chekov had continued to take extension courses without pause. His latest course choices had been in Security. He’d told the Doctor the topic hadn't even occurred to him as interesting until he actually posted on a deep space ship and discovered the almost cultish way that a Security Team operated on a ship. It was as if they had their own culture, their own underground society which ensured the safety the crew without anyone really noticing how they did it. It was just accepted that they did, and that they always would.

“Yes, Sir. The Security Chief administered the last part of the final exam nine days ago. I have not received the results yet,” he added.

McCoy’s jaw shifted ruefully. The Doctor knew if it had been him taking the course the Ensign would have showed up on the morning of the final exams to encourage him and bolster his confidence. Hell, he would have made sure he helped me study. Chekov didn’t have a fatherly slant toward McCoy, he just paid attention to people. He was just a nice guy.  
“Have you decided which course you’re going to take next?” he asked, feeling like he had to atone at least somewhat for his fatherly lapse. “You should continue to take Security Courses,” McCoy told him. “They interest you and they contain material which is totally new to you. That’s important to you: you need the mental challenge.”

Chekov grinned happily at him then, his dark eyes shining brilliantly.

The Doctor winced. He couldn’t even be a proper father to a stranger. “You’re father never would have told you what to do,” he observed dismally.

“No,” the Ensign laughed. “When I asked him, he mentioned I appear to enjoy challenges and left it for me to figure out. I like it when you order me around. Maybe that’s why I joined Starfleet...I always just wanted to be told what to do my whole life.”

“I wouldn’t criticize the way you were raised if I were you,” the Doctor advised. “You turned out alright.”

“It is not acceptable to approach your daughter,” Chekov concluded then. “I’m sure I will be able to convince Sulu to visit the archeology exhibit from Tarsus XII with me.”

“Don’t get jumpy with me you young upstart,” McCoy snapped out, glaring pointedly at the Navigator. His bright blue eyes were shining. “I’ll tell you what I think when I'm damn good and ready, son: and not before.”

He jammed his arms across his chest and glared at the younger man harder. 

Chekov smirked shamelessly, happily.

McCoy glanced away, but his laughter was obvious. The Doctor had taken to calling the young man ‘son’ soon after he posted to the Enterprise. When he had learned how close the man was to Andrie, McCoy had apologized: but Chekov said his own father had never used the word and he liked it when the Doctor did. Even when forced to define their relationship, Andrie apparently identified himself as Pavel’s father. Although the habit seemed strange at first, it reminded the Doctor of times David McCoy had identified him as nothing more than ‘my son.’ It belatedly struck him as demeaning.

Was it alright for the young man to entertain his daughter? he considered. Chekov had actually asked permission to act as a chaste escort. Hell, James Kirk would have just swooped in and...

“I would appreciate it if you’d look out for Joanna this week. Thank you for offering. Maybe I'll still be able to break away by her birthday.”

Maybe I'll just find the solution soon... 

Maybe just this once...


	2. Chapter 2

McCoy could see them through the bushes as he strolled along the path which ringed the outside of the park. It was the first place he had looked for them. Chekov had grown up traveling through the rural areas of Russia and he’d told the Doctor how much he loved mushroom hunting and picnics in the woods. McCoy doubted there were any mushrooms here: but there was a park.

A triumphant smile tugged at his features as he watched them through the leafy foliage. They were sitting on the ground with legs curled casually under them, and the Doctor had serious doubts that the blanket they sat on still qualified as anything but the ground. The idea of the straight-laced, proper young Ensign being caught sitting on the ground in uniform delighted McCoy with its threat potential for years to come.

Joanna had her back to her father: the Doctor could only see Chekov’s face as they sat talking. With a devilish shine in his expressive eyes and a boyish grin dancing over the rest of his face, the young man gestured with great enthusiasm as he spoke.

McCoy slowed as he came out from behind the last of the bushes, the smile fading and the blue in his eyes dimming. Chekov was sitting too close to her and a shy, charming smiled edged sheepishly across his face as the Doctor watched. He froze as Joanna lashed out and grabbed the Navigator’s hands in a fierce grip. She held the obviously surprised Ensign captive as she leaned in close to his ear, whispering an evident warning to sternly correct his transgression. Good for her...

Chekov started, looking clearly unnerved and his dark eyes gleamed fiercely as he said something urgently to her. McCoy saw him falter then as his eyes caught sight of the Doctor standing at the edge of the park. Face paling, the Navigator quickly pulled away from Joanna and scrambled to his feet.

McCoy lurched forward, jaw set as he strode quickly over to where they sat. He had seen Chekov work his charm on women aboard the ship. The shy smile and innocent, puppy-dog eyes affect remained a clear signal of his intentions and never failed to achieve its desired results. The natural gifts he had with people could have sinister uses at times, the Doctor knew.

“Doctor McCoy!” the young man exclaimed. “We weren’t expecting to see you!”

“That’s more than apparent,” McCoy growled, his eyes glaring at the man’s ashen face. “If you don’t mind, Ensign, I wish to have a word with you!”

“Dad!” Joanna smiled as she climbed to her feet. “You made it!”  
“Yes, princess,” he said thinly, reaching over to kiss her cheek quickly. “Give us a minute. I’ll be right back.

“We need to talk alone,” the Doctor added harshly to the Navigator as he grabbed his arm. “If you don’t mind!” The young man stumbled over his appendages as McCoy yanked him across the grass and then shoved him into the bushes. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” the Doctor demanded.

Straightening his uniform as he found his footing, Chekov stared at the older man, wide-eyed and clearly perplexed. “I was attempting to entertain your daughter, Sir: as we agreed I should,” he replied with a great deal of sincerity.

It only added to the Doctor’s foul mood. “We obviously had a need to define ‘entertain’ before you came down here!” McCoy snarled back. He’s only lucky Joanna hadn’t knocked his fool head off! “I saw you, Ensign. How dare you try that ploy on my daughter!”

Eyes widening in confusion and alarm, the Navigator shook his head vigorously. “Ploy? Sir, I never...”

“I’m not stupid, Chekov!” the Doctor spat. “That sheepish little smile you use to reel them in... I can’t believe I trusted you! If I find out you...”

“Sir, she’s your daughter!” the young man protested indignantly. “I would never...!” 

“My daughter,” McCoy rasped in a mutter. “I must be stupid. You even warned me!”

“Warned .... ?!”

“Yes, warned,” he retorted. “That night in the rec room when we were exchanging our ‘worst girlfriend’s father’ stories!”

The Navigator shook his head and insisted: “Sir, we were all drunk.”

“The only excuse I can give myself for not remembering in time!” It was late and everyone had been drunk. Which is probably why an irritated Kirk goaded Chekov for not adding his own story to the mix. The young man usually avoided talking about his personal life but McCoy had been impressed with the excuse he came up with.

“Have you looked at me, Captain? I’m the guy fathers pay to keep their daughters away from men like you!”

“So you’re the safe date,” Kirk had concluded at the time.

Chekov had grinned wildly, a devilish gleam in his dark eyes. “No, I’m just the man fathers think is safe!”

“It’s true,” McCoy had agreed broadly. “Take it from the father of a daughter, Jim. You can see the wolves coming a mile away: it’s the good boys you have to watch out for! They’re the dangerous ones!”

“And I still fell for it!” the Doctor spat out at Chekov now, glaring at him ferociously. “All that innocent ‘if 1 can be of any assistance, Sir...’ ” he imitated mockingly as he purposely looked away from the man who was infuriating him. “You little son of a bitch: I trusted you and you played me like a fool! Of all the horrible things I’ve inflicted on Joanna in her life this has got to grand prize foul-up of all time! ‘Keep her company for me, Chekov,’ ” he muttered to himself. “I actually fell for your charming little ruse! You’re good, Chekov: I have to give it to you. Real good!

“I don’t want you anywhere near my ever daughter again! Is that understood!?”

McCoy shot a distasteful glance back at the younger man then but hesitated. He knew immediately he wasn’t going to get a verbal response. Chekov’s ashen face was frozen into stone, his lips pinched together; and he was visibly trembling with the effort to keep it that way. The huge brown eyes were haunted.

McCoy slapped him. Hard.

Spinning away abruptly, the Doctor marched back toward his daughter: grinding the festering anger into the ground with every step. Damn him! It wasn't anger with the young man’s actions that had finally spurred McCoy to hit him. No: he had hit Chekov to knock that damn look out of his eyes. Utter betrayal and shock filled the wide, depthless brown eyes---the wholly consuming betrayal of a trusting child who had just discovered that such an abhorration existed in the world. Damn him! McCoy thought again. He isn’t the one who’s been betrayed!

*********************************

Barely aware of the muffled sounds of the restaurant around them, McCoy pushed at the thing impotently with the tongs of his fork. It made a satisfying little roll back to the center of his plate when he lifted the eating implement. It looked like an oven-browned potato. It sure as hell didn’t taste like one.

“So how’s everything going at the hospital?”   
“Fine.”  
If she looked at him, he didn’t actually see it because he didn’t raise his eyes to see hers again. He knew the washed-out grey color that held them far too well. Cold and unemotional: purposely punishing him.

He shifted and jabbed at the potato-thing again. “Did you take the transfer to the OR that they offered you?”

“No.”

McCoy chanced a glance at his daughter. No, he considered, her eyes weren’t unemotional. She was hidden somewhere behind that grey wall: closed off and removed from him, shutting out completely anything he might try to touch.

When had Joanna turned into her mother? he wondered.

The thought brought a soft, painful smile to the corner of his lips. Indeed, the grey color was haunting against her thick waves of black hair and bright cheeks. He saw nothing of himself in the young woman sitting before him. But then why should he?

McCoy forced himself to resist the well-established reaction that he’d long used when confronted with this behavior. Maybe if he hadn’t always just got up and left her mother all those times than his family life would have turned out entirely different.

“I thought it was a promotion,” he forged on.

She made a gentle sound as she cleared her throat. “I want to spend more than a couple hours with my patients, Dad. Especially if they’re asleep half the time: and terrified the other half. It’s not about the promotion.”

Of course it wasn’t. She didn’t care about the prestige: not his Joanna. She wanted the contact with people. McCoy decided to try to endure eating another one of the potato-things. If he recalled correctly, despite their appearance, they were some kind of meat. “Have you done anything to pursuing your acting?” he ventured, trying a new approach. “You were really good in that school play.”

“You didn’t go to my school play.”

“No, no,” he agreed, trying not to let the dismal reminder be heard in his voice. “But your reviews were raves: and I could tell you enjoyed doing it. I don’t mean you should switch careers, but it would give you a creative outlet to relieve the stress of work. That’s important for people in the medical profession.

“Besides,” he attempted to flash her a encouraging grin. “You’d be out meeting lots of new people. So, have you done anything about it?”

Fixing him with a bland look, she replied: “Yes, I sent a tape of my performance to the Royal Shakspere Company. I haven’t heard back from them yet.”

“Well, call them,” McCoy insisted. “Assert yourself, Joanna!”

She dropped her fork and glared at him. “Dad,” she drawled in that irritating, put-upon voice that all little girls could affect for their fathers. “I was seven, it was a school nutrition play and I was a carrot!”

McCoy’s mouth twitched. “Carrots contain many essential things for human nutrition,” he maintained deliberately. “You obviously had a pivotal role.”

She stared at him a long moment with her pale wells of indifference before deliberately turning her attention back to eating. He withheld the sigh that so desperately asked to be released and finished chewing. “So is there anyone special in your life?” McCoy tried, casting his eyes back to his own plate. “Romantically, I mean?”

Joanna glanced sharply at him. Sensing it, he hesitated long enough to acknowledge the squirreled-up mouth of disapproval with a glance.

“You always ask that like a Doctor,” she observed dryly.

“I am a Doctor,” he replied, but then added with a note of indignation: “What exactly do you mean by that?”

He was relieved to see the subtle hint of green amusement creep out from her pupils. “Dad,” she said tolerantly. “You never ask if I have a boyfriend. You always word it carefully, as if there’s a possibility that it might be a girlfriend, or...or a Tellerian horntoad! I’m your daughter, for heaven’s sake: just ask if I have a boyfriend.”

“Maybe,” McCoy declared, leaning closer to her, “I’m hoping for a Tellerian horntoad.”

She rewarded him by dipping her head to hide the smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Really, Dad!” she chastised him.

“I’ve heard they’re quite the companion,” he insisted as he returned his attention to his food. He jabbed at the strange assortment on his plate with renewed energy from his minor success. “So, is there a boyfriend?”

Joanna cast her eyes dismally back up at him without lifting her head. McCoy stared at her, his fingers tightening around the knife in his hand as he watched the warm ring of green turn into violent stabs of blue. The color completely over took her eyes before her jaw tightened and she returned her gaze to her plate.

“If you mentioned it...well, we haven’t gotten any mail lately,” he scrambled to defend himself. “I didn’t forget, princess. Really, I didn’t.”

Her only response was a low growl in her throat.

“I’m here now. Tell me about him now,” McCoy urged, his own blue eyes intense. “What’s his name?”  
She leaned back and sighed heavily as she dragged her napkin across her face. “Pavel,” Joanna said tartly. “His name is Pavel Chekov, Dad. I didn’t have a ‘romantic interest’ when I got here so it’s not like it could possibly be anyone else, now could it?”

McCoy’s jaw shifted, lines skirting away from his eyes in a subtle wince. “You could have told him you didn’t want to hang out with him,” he murmured in a quiet apology. “Or bowed out after a little while. I didn’t know you had other plans and I didn’t want you to get bored. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I couldn’t get away,” he insisted. The words had a hollow, familiar sound to them. “I’m sorry. I’m here now,” he added in a murmur that was still edged in hope.

“I’m sorry you lost her, Dad,” she drew out in response, eyes downcast. 

The Doctor stared at her a long moment. “How did you know, Joanna?” 

“Pavel told me.”

“What?” McCoy asked in surprise. “Does the man have a KGB cell going on the Enterprise?”

She let out a soft, light-hearted laugh and rewarded him with a cast of her green and gold eyes. “No, Dad. Pavel told me she died when he first saw you in the park. He said that he could tell by the look in your eyes.”

McCoy pushed at the food on his plate again. “Chekov does have an extraordinary gift for reading people: especially their eyes,” he agreed. The young man could even read through Uhura’s extraordinary acting abilities. The Communication’s Officer always came across as cheerful and carefree---no matter what. Only Chekov had noticed the change in her eyes when she was keeping the death of her younger brother to herself.

“He’s funny, too,” Joanna was saying.

McCoy smirked. “Yes, well, he thinks he is.” The smirk faded to an affectionate smile, despite how he was still feeling about the young man. “Actually, telling elaborate lies for entertainment purposes is a highly prized talent among Russians: they call it vanu. Another Russian crewman told me that,” he commented. “Chekov is definitely a credit to his culture.”

“He tends to use his humor to keep people at an arm’s length, though,” she intoned.

Hesitating, the Doctor stared at her. That observation could only have come from the Ensign himself. Frankly, I'm getting fed up with hearing it... “You did a lot of talking this week.”

She nodded silently.

Leaning forward carefully, McCoy pronounced: “That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard! Chekov spends altogether too much time analyzing himself: the man’s not nearly as complicated as he thinks he is, Joanna. He likes people and uses his humor to draw them in to him---not to push them away. You just have to watch him sometime, he’s a purely social creature. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like him almost immediately.”

Well, there was the last Chief Navigator, the Doctor thought. But the intensely disliked man had been threatened by the new Ensign’s social and navigational skills: with good cause.

“He reminds me of you.”

McCoy straightened, lines scurrying across his forehead. “Who?”   
“Pavel.”  
“Chekov...reminds you of me?” he asked incredulously.

Joanna tipped her head in a shy nod as a distant smile tugged at her lips. “Yes, he does.”

With a heavy sigh, he leaned back and threw his napkin on the table in defeat. McCoy didn’t know how she was goading him, but he knew she was. “I’m sorry, princess. I know I was a miserable father and I know I can never make up for all my past mistakes, but we’re both adults now. Isn’t there a way we can start building on that?”

He was trying so hard: trying, somehow, to finally be the father she needed. To be the father she deserved. Was it too late to dream of something so simple? “I made it to your birthday dinner. It’s a start. Can’t you give me a chance to make this right?”

She dropped her fork with a sound of exasperation. “Dad, when you got divorced, it made sense that mom got the house and you got the horses, but I’m at a loss to know to how the hell I ended up with custody of your guilt! Frankly, I’m sick of it.”

Startled, he studied her face intently, but remained completely dumbfounded. “Joanna, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the whole ‘I’m a horrible father’ routine that you’ve been dumping on me since—since I was born,” she insisted.

McCoy blinked hard and his mouth twitched subtly. He didn’t know how it was possible that he’d ever imparted such a horrible burden to her, but it didn’t matter. She felt it: so that made it intolerably real. He’d screwed up in ways he hadn’t even imagined. “I’m sorry. I never meant to blame you for my shortcomings,” he intoned quietly.

“Your...” Joanna began, but rolled her pale grey eyes with a sigh. She sat silently tapping her fork a long moment. “Dad,” she said softly. “You were the best parent I had: the best any kid could hope for.”

“That sarcasm is uncalled for,” McCoy rasped. And downright mean... He had never known Joanna to be mean before.

“I’m not being sarcastic,” she retorted, glancing sharply at him.

His eyes widened in genuine surprise that she would think such a thing. “Joanna, your mother was the perfect mother: the mother every child dreams of! She always did so much for you---she was always there for you. PTA, car pool, class mother, field trip chaperone, Girl Scout leader, every play, recital, game, practice,” McCoy recited. “Princess, your birthday parties were the talk of the town. She handmade every one of your Halloween costumes.”

Joanna had jammed her arms across her chest and was staring off into space: locked behind that grey, opaque wall again. Like her mother.

“That vampire costume was incredible,” he insisted, trying desperately to draw her back out. “You won awards!”

“She won awards,” she spat back stiffly without looking at him.

Concern furrowed out from his intense blue eyes and he leaned forward, reaching out to her with an impotent hand. He didn’t know exactly what his passionate daughter was upset about, but he knew she was more deeply upset than he’d ever seen her before.

“Joanna...” he pleaded softly. “Joanna...” Please let me in...talk to me...

When she turned back to him he almost hoped to see tears in the grey eyes, but he didn’t. They were, however, an odd blue-grey color he’d never seen.

“Do you think I’d ever fantasize about being a vampire, Dad?”

His untaken fingers curled in on themselves and his mouth twitched. A creature that frightened and hurt others? No, never...not his sweet Joanna. He realized that wearing the thing must have horrified her.

“I wanted to be a nurse that year,” she continued, pinching her lips together tightly. “Mom said it was stupid.”

“You were crying that night,” he remembered, straightening and pulling his hand back completely.

Nodding, her face softened as she blinked. “You gave me the scrub top you were wearing.”

“I remember,” McCoy said with a sour face. “You’re mother was furious. You wore it to sleep in for years. It was so big on you it came down past your knees.

“I got you your own scrub sets, but you never gave mine up.”  
“Because it was yours,” she said with a soft smile. “I loved that thing. I still have it and it’s still too big.

“I used to play in the scrubs you gave me in my own size. Mom wasn’t happy about that either. I wasn’t supposed to have play clothes and get dirty: not Doctor McCoy’s daughter.”

McCoy studied her curiously with genuine concern growing within him. “Princess, I never put that kind of pressure on you.”

“She did,” Joanna replied. “Mom used to keep me dressed in the latest high fashion clothes and polished shoes.”

It occurred to him that she was right. Joanna had always looked like...a princess...when she was at home or out with her mother. “You used to keep clothes at my parents’ house,” the Doctor said after a moment’s thought. “And I always had to wait for you to change when I picked you up at your friends’.”

“It was always about appearance with mom,” she observed dourly. 

“Joanna...” he began in warning.

“Dad, stop it!” she retorted. “I’m an adult now: not a 14 year old who has to talk nice about her divorced parents to each other. She was a horrible mother.”

McCoy straightened slowly, guilt and grief sinking into the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know where her skewed vision of her childhood had come from, but Joanna obviously had severe problems stemming from the divorce he was never aware of. At least she was talking to him.

“Your mother...” he began carefully.

“Never cared about me,” she interrupted fiercely. The anger in her voice was not evident in her eyes, however---they were that odd grey/blue color. “All she ever cared about was the ‘mother of the year’ in the rest of the world’s eyes. PTA president, best food for school parties, best donated raffle prizes, best Girl Scout troop, best costumes, best parties, best fundraisers... She never cared about me, she never wanted to know who I was or what I wanted. I was only the means to an end.

“Do you think a 12 year old girl cares about having jugglers and clowns at her birthday party?”

“No,” McCoy answered ruefully, his throat tightening. It was true the whole world was amazed at what incredible mother his ex-wife was. He’d just always assumed it meant the two women in his life had a deep connection that he daren’t try to interfere with. “I’m sorry, princess: I never realized how lonely you were at home.”

“I wasn’t lonely, Dad,” Joanna said quietly. “I had you. You gave me Chocolate that birthday, remember? You always gave me the best presents. I love that horse.”

“She’s a good animal,” he agreed quietly. What he remembered most, however, was that the gift enraged his wife so completely that she hadn’t spoken to him for two entire months afterward. A version of the punishment was repeated every time Joanna worked in the stable with her mare. It was the event that finally ended their marriage in the long run, he realized for the first time. Taking care of filthy animals was not an appropriate activity for a young lady, his wife maintained. Leonard McCoy simply didn’t care about what his wife thought and wanted: the girl loved working with horses and she’d earned the right to have her own.

“It was the same with you, Dad: she never cared about you. All she wanted was to be a Doctor’s wife, a great surgeon’s ‘better half’. All that mattered to her was the exclusive Country Club membership, the dinner parties, the black tie charity events...”

“She didn’t end up with who she thought she married,” McCoy observed bitterly, his eyes downcast. He’d hated those events and had refused to be dragged to them on all but the rarest occasions: occasions when she screamed and cried enough that he would do just about anything to shut her up.

“Neither did you, Dad,” Joanna insisted more strongly and waited until he looked up at her. “You didn’t end up with who you thought you married, either. She wanted a Nobel Prize winning, famous doctor and you wanted a caring woman for a wife: the woman you must have thought she was when you fell in love with her. She’s a very good actress. You never fit together, you’re completely different people.

“The divorce wasn’t your fault, Dad.... It wasn’t your fault...”

McCoy swallowed with difficulty, pinching his lips together: profoundly affected by his daughter’s insight. It seemed Joanna wasn’t the one with the skewed vision of the past, after all. It was apparently far clearer than his own, which was clouded by the guilt he’d been carefully cultivating all these years. Guilt that had kept him away from Joanna and emotionally---toxically---kept him connected him to his ex-wife.

“She’s very happily married to that CEO,” he finally said. “All the dinner parities and charity events she could possibly host. Her name is always in the society section.”

“And she hasn’t talked to me since I left for nursing school.”

It was the last time McCoy had spoken to her, too: their last blow-out fight. The woman considered nursing a demeaning career and was humiliated for herself that her daughter had shamed her by becoming ‘no more than a maid.’

“I expect to hear from her when I finally break down and marry the rich VP of something or other. Mom just acts like a caring person to impress people. She’s a sociopath, Dad.”

The burst of laughter came out of his mouth before he could clamp his hands over it, but his bright blue eyes were gleaming in amusement. The unkind amusement brought final, welcome relief from feelings he now realized he’d never rightfully earned.

Joanna was an extraordinary young woman.

She made no pretense of hiding her own laughter. “Dad,” Joanna suddenly asked. “Do you remember when you used to take me on rounds at the hospital?”

This time, he did chuckle out loud despite the guilt that tried to edge it’s way back in. Yet another way he’d found to make his wife explode. “She only left you with me when I had the day off,” he commented dryly. “And I still went to the hospital for rounds---dragging you with me.”

“I loved it,” Joanna said, smoky blue eyes shining. “Do you remember Doctor Kingra?”

“Remember him?” McCoy laughed sardonically. “He was the bane of my existence during residency.”

“He was always so clinical: ‘this cardiac case presented with these symptoms, this diagnosis was suggested for these reasons, with the following procedures implemented...’ ” she recited in a mocking, deep voice.

“Incredible diagnostician,” he maintained in Kingra’s defense. “I learned a lot from that man.

“He hated me,” he added with a wry grin. “He was always yelling at me for not keeping up with him on rounds.”

“Kingra had a problem with you because you’re a different kind of doctor than he was,” Joanna observed affectionately. “He’d move on and you’d stay to talk to the patient. ‘Donald, how are you today?’ ‘Did your son make it in to see you last night?’ ‘Has your granddaughter said anything new yet?’

“You always cared about the people, Dad. You noticed them and you remembered every little thing about them. That’s why you went in on your days off for rounds: you went to check on them because you cared,” she continued, her blue eyes fixed on him warmly as she grinned. “I was always so proud of you when Kingra yelled at you. Watching you at the hospital is what made me want to be a nurse.

“I wanted to be like you, Dad. I so much wanted to be like you.”

McCoy sat motionless, almost completely unable to breathe: as if the slightest movement would chase away her words. She was right about why he and Kingra had rubbed each other the wrong way. She was right about why his marriage could never have worked. How could someone who paid so much attention to his patients never have seen the man staring back at him from his own mirror?

And she wanted to be like him...

McCoy swallowed hard and forced himself not to tremble. Damn it, I'm spending too much time with that Russian.

“Dad, I remember you used to find me every day---even if you had to call just to ask ‘how you doing, princess?’,” Joanna recalled, eyes shining. “I know it sounds silly, I suppose, but I could say ‘fine’ every time and you still knew if I wanted to be left alone or if I needed to talk. And you listened no matter how silly I was being. I always knew I was important to you.

“And you always kissed me good night every day,” she remembered fondly. “No matter how late you got home.”

“How could you remember that?” McCoy finally managed. “You were asleep half the time.”

“I always knew, Dad,” she insisted with a smile. “I knew.”   
“Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t there more often.”  
“Dad, you were always there when I needed you. You still are. And you're a good listener. Pavel really does remind me of you. I can see why you are friends.”

Friends? McCoy considered with surprise. The young man relied on him for...yes, he realized belatedly. He supposed they were friends. It gave him a degree of satisfaction to know that, unlike most of Chekov’s other ‘friends’, McCoy had been able to return the emotional support the young man so freely gave to others.

“You like him a lot, don’t you?” he asked quietly.

“I love him, Dad.”

The Doctor was taken aback for a moment, but she laughed lightly at him.

“Please, Dad! He’s not the love of my life. Although, if I married him it would sure piss off mom, wouldn’t it?”

McCoy could only imagine the look on his face by her resulting laughter.

“Breathe, Dad! I’m not about to join the Fleet to be with him, or quit my job and become a camp follower: chasing the ship across the galaxy to be there for his leaves. I’m a sensible, grown woman. I enjoyed spending the week with him.” Joanna flashed him a shy, toying smile, then. “You always did give the best birthday presents: always knew just what I wanted.”

The Doctor stilled as his original dismay came creeping back. “He didn’t.... I mean...” he stopped and cleared his throat.  
Joanna chuckled again and gave him a sour look. “Not for lack of trying.”

Her words had a thin sound as they registered in the sinking pit of McCoy's gut. Chekov had...

“Truly,” she went on in a rush. “I gave him ample opportunity: made every pass I know of. For a grown man, I swear he’s just entirely too naive. In my opinion, time in Starfleet can only do him good.”

McCoy did everything not to laugh out loud from relief. Even covering his mouth serindipitously, however, didn’t stop his body from shaking at the effort as he pictured the conversations she spoke about. Chekov had told him it was the surest way to avoid unwanted advances from anyone---of any gender. Because of his wholesome good looks, Chekov could simply act blissfully ignorant of what they were suggesting and they would accept defeat with dumbfounded good humor.

“I finally grabbed him in frustration and told him exactly how I was feeling,” Joanna pronounced. “That’s right when you showed up.”

The Doctor stilled again, staring at her. He had witness that propo...scene, and he had clearly mistaken what he saw. Clearly. “So you never got an answer?” he ventured, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. Almost sure he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Oh, yes, I did,” she said ruefully. “He said ‘it would not be appropriate.’ Sounded like a Vulcan,” Joanna muttered.

McCoy bit his lip. Okay, he didn’t mind hearing the answer. Was glad he heard the answer.

“Pavel Chekov is entirely too wholesome for his own good,” she continued then. “He’d never even consider being ‘inappropriate’ with a friend’s daughter.”

Joanna was absolutely right, thought McCoy. Pavel Chekov would never betray a friend’s trust. It wasn’t in him.

He was an extraordinary young man.

Joanna chewed on her lip a moment, scrunching up her nose. “I just...I would have liked to get to know him better,” she added quietly with a shrug.

McCoy swallowed with difficulty. He knew what she meant. He just wished he didn’t.

After a moment, he straightened and cleared his throat quietly. “Princess, I’m so glad I got to spend your birthday dinner with you: but I really should be getting back. I don’t want to leave the autopsy undone too long. There are too many questions.”

He saw her hesitate and cast him a curious look. She already knew.

“Would you mind spending the rest of the week...without my company?” he asked.

Joanna’s eyes widened, but he didn’t look at them. He didn’t want to know what color they were. She was chewing on her lip again, though. He stood abruptly. “This is already on my account. Why don’t you stay for coffee and desert. I...” he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, I...” Hell, they were both grown adults, he thought. Why couldn’t he...well, hell, she was his daughter!

Joanna smiled up at him happily. “Do you think he’s still on the station, Dad?”

The Doctor nodded. “He’s got two more days of leave: he’s still here. Have some coffee, princess and I’ll find him.” I owe the man an apology, he thought soberly. A huge apology.

She leapt up and threw her arms around him in a bear hug. “I love you, Dad. I am so glad you’re my father. I’ve always been so glad that you're my father, Dad.”

McCoy gripped her fiercely. “I’m glad too, princess.”

She chuckled in his ear. “And you give the best presents!”

He smirked shamelessly. Joanna was an extraordinary young woman.   
And she was nothing like her mother.

********************************

Leonard McCoy eased himself carefully onto the stool and pursed his lips, laying his hands flat on the bar in a tentative motion.

“What’ll you have?”

“Gin and tonic,” he replied, then jabbed a finger toward the man sitting next to him. “And bring him another vodka.”

“He’s not drinking vodka,” the bartender replied tartly.

“Well, then bring him whatever he’s drinking,” the Doctor said irritably.

“Gin and tonic,” the man bit out as he deposited the glasses in front of them. “And another seltzer for the big spender.”  
After he left, McCoy chanced a glance at his silent companion. “Seltzer?”

“Someone told me a wise man drinks to remember, not to forget,” came his quiet reply.  
“Your godfather,” the Doctor surmised.  
“No.” Chekov gave the smallest of smiles as he twisted the glass in his fingers. “Sergei very easily finds reasons to drink. My father said it.”

Silence fell between them again.

“Your father never would have hit you,” McCoy finally said.

“No,” Chekov intoned again. “ ‘There's never a reason for one person to harm another’,” he continued in a voice that was not his own.

“Wisdom which bears repeating.”

“Yes,” the Navigator agreed. “He said it every time he pulled me out of a fight.”   
McCoy saw the change in the man's face even out of the corner of his eye.   
“I heard it a lot.”  
Smirking, the Doctor went for the bait with relief. “I’ll bet you did.”

“Riley’s father used to hit him,” Chekov continued on in an easy chatter. “Not that he was abused, just spanked occasionally. In fact, sometimes his father hit him for no reason.” The younger man finally looked over at McCoy and flashed him a conspiratorial smile. “When Kevin protested he hadn’t done anything his father would say ‘that's for what you’re going to do later! I can see it in your face!’”

McCoy laughed out loud. “It's a good thing Seamus wasn’t your father, Ensign.”

“I would not have lived to adulthood,” the Navigator agreed melodramatically, his accent thick.

After another chuckle, the Doctor lapsed into silence again, but it was an easy one. Chekov had a natural way of easing tension. He didn't like uncomfortable situations.

“I’m sorry.”

The Ensign shrugged. “You were protecting your daughter. No sane man comes between a father and his daughter.” He rolled his eyes then with great melodrama. “If God has any sense of decency, he won’t saddle any female with me for a father.”

“You didn’t deserve the way I treated you,” McCoy sighed, ignoring the man’ s attempt to end the issue. There were things he needed to say. “I knew you would never.... I’m sorry,” he concluded after clearing his throat. “I know you better than that.”

“Yes,” Chekov drawled, his accent thick. “You were acting entirely human. I have decided to excuse your lapse this time.”

The Doctor grinned broadly and he laughed again. Oh, the hell with it. “You're an extraordinary young man,” he threw out for good measure, however.

The Ensign looked at him in horror. “Don’t tell Sergei you told me that! I will never hear the end of it!”

Still smiling, McCoy sipped his drink. Having exchanged letters with Chekov’s down-to-earth godfather, he knew that the people back home routinely and lovingly put the young man in his place whenever he showed any signs of getting cocky. Uppityness was considered a vile thing by Russians and someone as gifted as Chekov was forever in danger of developing the serious personality defect. They took great pains to make sure he didn’t.

“I do have to thank you,” the Navigator went on, the accent lacing his words at odds with his deeply sincere tone. “We weren’t technically dating, but I finally have a ‘worst father’ story to tell.” His face split in a wild, crooked grin and his dark eyes sparkled devilishly. “You won’t mind me...elaborating...just a bit?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t, son.” McCoy put his drink down and let the satisfying clink of glass against the bar top signal an end to the Navigator’s mindless prattling. Chekov, more than anything, was adept as guiding the course of everyday conversations so they stayed in the comfortable realm of the inane. The younger man clearly wanted to end any discussion about the Doctor’s daughter.

McCoy didn’t share the Russian’s belief that conversations should be comfortable. “Joanna and I had dinner. You know, this is the first birthday of hers I actually spent with her. It took twenty-four years but I finally made it.

“We had a very good talk,” the Doctor concluded. “We were able to settle a lot of things that have been hanging over our heads far too long.” It was unusual for him to share so much with anyone. Chekov was a friend that knew Joanna, however. And McCoy had realized there were good things to talk about in his family life.

“I'm glad you were able to talk.” There actually seemed to be relief in Chekov’s voice. “I told her she should...”

He froze as McCoy jerked up straight in his chair and glared at him with cold steel eyes. The younger man had an unnerving way of meeting people’s emotional needs before they even knew they had them. The idea that this trip was not Joanna’s idea at all was now a probability that the Doctor considered. A more frightening thought occurred to him then. That meant Chekov had been communicating with Joanna before this trip. Why that little...

“I told her she should try the stew,” the Navigator concluded quickly.

He finally gave the young man a sour look. Telling lies to entertain and actually trying to gel away with it seriously are entirely different things. “Ensign, you are the worst liar in existence,” he pronounced.

Somber brown eyes regarded him a long moment. “Worse than my bowling?” he asked thickly.

“Nothing’s that bad, Chekov.”

The young man shoved his cheek onto his fist and sank into a sullen pout.

The Doctor made little effort to fight off his broadening grin. “Keep trying, Chekov,” he advised. “You’ll figure out a way to cheat.”

“I can only dream.”

There’s always room for simple dreams in this universe, thought McCoy. “Ens...Pavel,” he corrected.

The use of his given name caused Chekov’s eyes to narrow suspiciously.

“I have to get back to the ship to get the autopsy started. Joanna is still at the restaurant and I was hoping....well, that you could keep her company. You have two days of leave left. If you’re willing, that is,” the Doctor added quickly.

The Navigator remained frozen. “Sir, I believe one ‘worst father’ story is all I can handle.”

“Really, son, it’s not a babysitting job this time. It’ll be....” He hesitated before wincing unintentionally. “I’m talking about a date.”

“You want me to go out on a date with Joanna?” Chekov gave him an incredulous look when he nodded. “Three hours ago you were ready to kill me and now you’re a matchmaker?”

McCoy felt like something decidedly more vulgar than a matchmaker. He forced himself to shrug. “I’m a Doctor: I vary my approach according to what the situation requires.

“Joanna wants to see you again, and I think you feel the same,” he added. 

The younger man eyed him carefully. “You won’t...hit...me again, will you?”

“Of course I won’t...” he hesitated as he felt a sudden chill. “Pavel,” the Doctor managed in a thin voice. “I’m not your father. Seriously, son, as far as Joanna is concerned....just...I don’t want to know, if you know what I mean.”

Chekov blinked in apparent confusion. “You set us up on a date, but you don’t want to know we had a date?”

“Really. I mean it,” McCoy insisted. “I don’t want to know. Anything.”

“I don’t understand, Sir,” the younger man said innocently.

“That’s not funny! Consider that an order!” he snapped when Chekov went to speak again.

The Navigator made a small noise of resignation, but he couldn’t quite affect the mix of hurt and distress he attempted to put on his face. It turned into a sheepish smile.

McCoy smirked despite himself. “Pavel, just do me a favor, please. When you tell that ‘worst father’ story change the names to protect the humiliated.” 

“Doc, you won’t even recognize yourself.” 

That was a feeling McCoy was beginning to get used to.


End file.
